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VOICE 


ARGARET  DELANO 


•.  -• 


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[See  p.  7 


DR.  LAVENDAR'S  SAGGING  OLD  BUGGY  PULLED  UP 

AT   THEIR   GATE 


THE  VOICE 


MARGARET  DELAND 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 
W.    H.    D.    KOERNER 


HARPER  fir  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK    AND   LONDON 

MCMXII 


COPYRIGHT,    1902,    1912.    BY    HARPER   &    BROTHERS 

PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 
PUBLISHED   SEPTEMBER.    1912 


L-M 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

DR.  LAVENDAR'S  SAGGING  OLD  BUGGY  PULLED 

UP  AT  THEIR  GATE Frontispiece 

PHILIPPA    SAT     WITH     HER     FATHER,    IN    THE 

SILENT    UPPER    CHAMBER Facing  p.   2& 

THE  BLOW  OF  HER  REPLY  ALMOST  KNOCKED 
HIM  BACK  INTO  HIS  MINISTERIAL  AF 
FECTATIONS  66 


394420 


THE    VOICE 


THE    VOICE 


CHAPTER  I 

.  LAVENDAR,"  said  William 
King,  "some  time  when  Goliath 
is  doing  his  2.40  on  a  plank  road,  don't 
you  want  to  pull  him  up  at  that  house 
on  the  Perryville  pike  where  the  Grays 
used  to  live,  and  make  a  call?  An  old 
fellow  called  Roberts  has  taken  it; 
he  is  a—" 

"Teach  your  grandmother, "  said 
Dr.  Lavendar;  "he  is  an  Irvingite.  He 
comes  from  Lower  Ripple,  down  on  the 
Ohio,  and  he  has  a  daughter,  Philippa." 

"Oh,"  said  Dr.  King,  "you  know  'em, 
do  you?" 

"Know   them?     Of    course    I    know 


THE    VOICE 


them!  Do  you  think  you  are  the  only 
man  who  tries  to  enlarge  his  business? 
But  I  was  not  successful  in  my  efforts. 
The  old  gentleman  doesn't  go  to  any 
church;  and  the  young  lady  inclines  to 
the  Perryville  meeting-house — the  par 
son  there  is  a  nice  boy." 

"She  is  an  attractive  young  creature," 
said  the  doctor,  smiling  at  some  pleasant 
memory;  " the  kind  of  girl  a  man  would 
like  to  have  for  a  daughter.  But  did 
you  ever  know  such  an  old-fashioned 
little  thing!" 

"Well,  she's  like  the  girls  I  knew  when 
I  was  the  age  of  the  Perryville  parson, 
so  I  suppose  you'd  call  her  old-fash 
ioned,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said.  "There 
aren't  many  such  girls  nowadays;  sweet- 
tempered  and  sensible  and  with  some 
fun  in  'em." 

"Why  don't  you  say  'good,'  too?" 
William  King  inquired. 

"Unnecessary,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said, 
scratching  Danny's  ear;  "anybody  who 


THE    VOICE 


is  amiable,  sensible,  and  humorous   is 
good.     Can't  help  it." 

"The  father  is  good,"  William  King 
said,  "but  he  is  certainly  not  sensible. 
He's  an  old  donkey,  with  his  Tongues 
and  his  Voice!" 

Dr.  Lavendar's  face  sobered.  "No," 
he  said,  "he  may  be  an  Irvingite,  but 
he  isn't  a  donkey." 

"What  on  earth  is  an  Irvingite, 
anyhow?"  William  asked. 

Dr.  Lavendar  looked  at  him,  pity 
ingly:  "William,  you  are  so  ridiculously 
young!  Well,  I  suppose  you  can't  help 
it.  My  boy,  about  the  time  you  were 
born,  there  was  a  man  in  London- 
some  folks  called  him  a  saint,  and  some 
folks  called  him  a  fool;  it's  a  way  folks 
have  had  ever  since  our  Lord  came  into 
this  world.  His  name  was  Irving,  and  he 
started  a  new  sect."  (Dr.  Lavendar  was 
as  open-minded  as  it  is  possible  for  one 
of  his  Church  to  be,  but  even  he  said 
"sect"  when  it  came  to  outsiders.) 
3 


THE    VOICE 


"He  started  this  new  sect,  which  be 
lieved  that  the  Holy  Ghost  would 
speak  again  by  human  lips,  just  as 
on  the  Day  of  Pentecost.  Well,  there 
was  'speaking'  in  his  congregation; 
sort  of  outbursts  of  exhortation,  you 
know.  Mostly  unintelligible.  I  re 
member  Dr.  Alexander  said  it  was 
'gibberish';  he  heard  some  of  it  when 
he  was  in  London.  It  may  have  been 
'gibberish,'  but  nobody  can  doubt  Ir- 
ving's  sincerity  in  thinking  it  was  the 
Voice  of  God.  When  he  couldn't  un 
derstand  it,  he  just  called  it  an  '  un 
known  tongue/  Of  course  he  was  con 
sidered  a  heretic.  He  was  put  out  of 
his  Church.  He  died  soon  after,  poor 
fellow." 

"Doesn't  Mr.  Roberts's  everlasting 
arguing  about  it  tire  you  out?"  William 
asked. 

"Oh  no,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  cheer 
fully;  "when  he  talks  too  long  I  just 
shut  my  eyes;  he  never  notices  it! 
4 


THE    VOICE 


He's  a  gentle  old  soul.  When  I  answer 
back — once  in  a  while  I  really  have  to 
speak  up  for  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church, — Ifeel  as  if  I  had  kicked  Danny." 

William  King  grinned.  Then  he  got 
up  and,  drawing  his  coat-tails  forward, 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  jug  of  lilacs 
in  Dr.  Lavendar's  fireplace.  "Oh,  well, 
of  course  it's  all  bosh,"  he  said,  and 
yawned;  "I  was  on  a  case  till  four 
o'clock  this  morning,"  he  apologized. 

"William,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  ad 
miringly,  "what  an  advantage  you  fel 
lows  have  over  us  poor  parsons !  Every 
thing  a  medical  man  doesn't  understand 
is  'bosh' !  Now,  we  can't  classify  things 
as  easily  as  that." 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  William  said, 
doggedly;  "from  my  point  of  view—  " 

"From  your  point  of  view,"  said  Dr. 
Lavendar,  "St.  Paul  was  an  epileptic, 
because  he  heard  a  Voice?" 

"If  you  really  want  to  know  what  I 
think—" 

5 


THE    VOICE 


"I  don't,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said;  "I 
want  you  to  know  what  /  think.  Mr. 
Roberts  hasn't  heard  any  Voice,  yet; 
he  is  only  listening  for  it.  William, 
listening  for  the  Voice  of  God  isn't 
necessarily  a  sign  of  poor  health;  and 
provided  a  man  doesn't  set  himself  up 
to  think  he  is  the  only  person  his 
Heavenly  Father  is  willing  to  speak  to, 
listening  won't  do  him  any  harm.  As 
for  Henry  Roberts,  he  is  a  humble  old 
man.  An  example  to  me,  William!  I 
am  pretty  arrogant  once  in  a  while. 
I  have  to  be,  with  such  men  as  you  in 
my  congregation.  No;  the  real  trouble 
in  that  household  is  that  girl  of  his.  It 
isn't  right  for  a  young  thing  to  live  in 
such  an  atmosphere." 

William  agreed  sleepily.  "  Pretty 
creature.  Wish  I  had  a  daughter  just 
like  her,"  he  said,  and  took  himself  off 
to  make  up  for  a  broken  night's  rest. 
But  Dr.  Lavendar  and  Danny  still  sat 
in  front  of  the  lilac-filled  fireplace,  and 
6 


THE    VOICE 


thought  of  old  Henry  Roberts  listening 
for  the  Voice  of  God,  and  of  his  Phi- 
lippa. 

The  father  and  daughter  had  lately 
taken  a  house  on  a  road  that  wandered 
over  the  hills  between  elderberry-bushes 
and  under  sycamores,  from  Old  Ches 
ter  to  Perryville.  They  were  about 
half-way  between  the  two  little  towns, 
and  they  did  not  seem  to  belong  to 
either.  Perryville's  small  manufactur 
ing  bustle  repelled  the  silent  old  man 
whom  Dr.  Lavendar  called  an  "Irving- 
ite";  and  Old  Chester's  dignity  and 
dull  aloofness  repelled  young  Philippa. 
The  result  was  that  the  Robertses  and 
their  one  woman  servant,  Hannah,  had 
been  living  on  the  Perryville  pike  for 
some  months  before  anybody  in  either 
village  was  quite  aware  of  their  exist 
ence.  Then  one  day  in  May,  Dr. 
Lavendar's  sagging  old  buggy  pulled 
up  at  their  gate,  and  the  old  minister 
called  over  the  garden  wall  to  Philippa: 
7 


THE    VOICE 


"Won't  you  give  me  some  of  your  apple 
blossoms?" 

That  was  the  beginning  of  Old  Ches 
ter's  knowledge  of  the  Roberts  family. 
A  little  later  Perryville  came  to  know 
them,  too:  the  Rev.  John  Fenn,  pastor 
of  the  Perryville  Presbyterian  Church, 
got  off  his  big,  raw-boned  Kentucky 
horse  at  the  same  little  white  gate  in 
the  brick  wall  at  which  Goliath  had 
stopped,  and  walked  solemnly — not  no 
ticing  the  apple  blossoms — up  to  the 
porch.  Henry  Roberts  was  sitting  there 
in  the  hot  twilight,  with  a  curious  lis 
tening  look  in  his  face — a  look  of  wait 
ing  expectation;  it  was  so  marked,  that 
the  caller  involuntarily  glanced  over  his 
shoulder  to  see  if  any  other  visitor  was 
approaching;  but  there  was  nothing  to 
be  seen  in  the  dusk  but  the  roan  nibbling 
at  the  hitching  -  post.  Mr.  Fenn  said 
that  he  had  called  to  inquire  whether 
Mr.  Roberts  was  a  regular  attendant 
at  any  place  of  worship.  To  which  the 
8 


THE    VOICE 


old  man  replied  gently  that  every  place 
was  a  place  of  worship,  and  his  own 
house  was  the  House  of  God. 

John  Fenn  was  honestly  dismayed  at 
such  sentiments — dismayed,  and  a  little 
indignant;  and  yet,  somehow,  the  self- 
confidence  of  the  old  man  daunted  him. 
It  made  him  feel  very  young,  and  there 
is  nothing  so  daunting  to  Youth  as  to 
feel  young.  Therefore  he  said,  vener 
ably,  that  he  hoped  Mr.  Roberts  realized 
that  it  was  possible  to  deceive  oneself 
in  such  matters.  "It  is  a  dangerous 
thing  to  neglect  the  means  of  grace, " 
he  said. 

"Surely  it  is,"  said  Henry  Roberts, 
meekly;  after  which  there  was  nothing 
for  the  caller  to  do  but  offer  the  Irving- 
ite  a  copy  of  the  American  Messenger 
and  take  his  departure.  He  was  so 
genuinely  concerned  about  Mr.  Roberts's 
"  danger,"  that  he  did  not  notice  Philippa 
sitting  on  a  stool  at  her  father's  side. 
But  Philippa  noticed  him. 

2  9 


THE    VOICE 


So,  after  their  kind,  did  these  two 
shepherds  of  souls  endeavor  to  estab 
lish  a  relationship  with  Henry  and 
Philippa  Roberts.  And  they  were 
equally  successful.  Philippa  gave  her 
apple  blossoms  to  the  old  minister, — and 
went  to  Mr.  Fenn's  church  the  very 
next  Sunday.  Henry  Roberts  accepted 
the  tracts  with  a  simple  belief  in  the 
kindly  purpose  of  the  young  minister, 
and  stayed  away  from  both  churches. 
But  both  father  and  daughter  were 
pleased  by  the  clerical  attentions: 

"I  love  Dr.  Lavendar,"  Philippa 
said  to  her  father. 

"I  am  obliged  to  Mr.  Fenn,"  her 
father  said  to  Philippa.  "The  youth," 
he  added,  "  cares  for  my  soul.  I  am 
obliged  to  any  one  who  cares  for  my 
soul." 

He  was,  indeed,  as  Dr.  Lavendar  said, 
a  man  of  humble  mind;  and  yet  with 
his  humbleness  was  a  serene  certainty 
of  belief  as  to  his  soul's  welfare  that 

10 


THE    VOICE 


would  have  been  impossible  to  John 
Fenn,  who  measured  every  man's  chance 
of  salvation  by  his  own  theological 
yardstick,  or  even  to  Dr.  Lavendar, 
who  thought  salvation  unmeasurable. 
But  then  neither  of  these  two  ministers 
had  had  Henry  Roberts's  experience. 
It  was  very  far  back,  that  experience; 
it  happened  before  Philippa  was  born; 
and  when  they  came  to  live  between  the 
two  villages  Philippa  was  twenty-four 
years  old.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  the  thirties  that  young 
Roberts,  a  tanner  in  Lower  Ripple, 
went  to  England  to  collect  a  small 
bequest  left  him  by  a  relative.  The 
sense  of  distance,  the  long  weeks  at  sea 
in  a  sailing-vessel,  the  new  country  and 
the  new  people,  all  impressed  them 
selves  upon  a  very  sensitive  mind,  a 
mind  which,  even  without  such  emotion 
al  preparation,  was  ready  to  respond  to 
any  deeply  emotional  appeal.  Then 
came  the  appeal.  It  was  that  new 
ii 


THE    VOICE 


gospel  of  the  Tongues,  which,  in  those 
days,  astounded  and  thrilled  all  London 
from  the  lips  of  Edward  Irving — fanatic, 
saint,  and  martyr! — the  man  who,  hav 
ing  prayed  that  God  would  speak  again 
in  prophecy,  would  not  deny  the  power 
of  prayer  by  refusing  to  believe  that  his 
prayer  was  answered,  even  though  the 
prophecy  was  unintelligible.  And  later, 
when  the  passionate  cadences  of  the 
spirit  were  in  English,  and  were  found 
to  be  only  trite  or  foolish  words,  re 
peated  and  repeated  in  a  wailing  chant 
by  some  sincere,  hysterical  woman,  he 
still  believed  that  a  new  day  of  Pentecost 
had  dawned  upon  a  sinful  world !  ' l  For, ' ' 
said  he,  "when  I  asked  for  bread,  would 
God  give  me  a  stone?" 

Henry  Roberts  went  to  hear  the 
great  preacher  and  forgot  his  haste 
to  receive  his  little  legacy  so  that  he 
might  hurry  back  to  the  tanyard.  Ir- 
ving's  eloquence  entranced  him,  and  it 
alone  would  have  held  him  longer  than 

12 


THE    VOICE 


the  time  he  had  allowed  himself  for 
absence  from  the  tannery.  But  it 
happened  that  he  was  present  on  that 
Lord's  Day  when,  with  a  solemn  and 
dreadful  sound,  the  Tongues  first  spoke 
in  that  dingy  Chapel  in  Regent  Square, 
— and  no  man  who  heard  that  Sound 
ever  forgot  it !  The  mystical  youth  from 
America  was  shaken  to  his  very  soul. 
He  stayed  on  in  London  for  nearly  a 
year,  immersing  himself  in  those  tides 
of  emotion  which  swept  saner  minds 
than  his  from  the  somewhat  dry  land 
of  ordinary  human  experience.  That 
no  personal  revelation  was  made  to 
him,  that  the  searing  benediction  of  the 
Tongues  had  not  touched  his  own  awed, 
uplifted  brow,  made  no  difference:  he 
believed! — and  prayed  God  to  help 
any  lingering  unbelief  that  might  be 
holding  him  back  from  deeper  knowl 
edges.  To  the  end  of  his  days  he  was 
Edward  Irving 's  follower;  and  when 
he  went  back  to  America  it  was  as  a 
13 


THE    VOICE 


missionary  of  the  new  sect,  that  called 
itself  by  the  sounding  title  of  The 
Catholic  Apostolic  Church. 

In  Lower  Ripple  he  preached  to  any 
who  would  listen  to  him  the  doctrine 
of  the  new  Pentecost.  At  first  curios 
ity  brought  him  hearers;  his  story  of 
the  Voice,  dramatic  and  mysterious, 
was  listened  to  in  doubting  silence; 
then  disapproved  of — so  hotly  disap 
proved  of  that  he  was  sessioned  and 
read  out  of  Church.  But  in  those 
days  in  western  Pennsylvania,  mere 
living  was  too  engrossing  a  matter 
for  much  thought  of  "  tongues "  and 
"voices";  it  was  easier,  when  a  man 
talked  of  dreams  and  visions,  not  to 
argue  with  him,  but  to  say  that  he 
was  "crazy."  So  by  and  by  Henry 
Roberts' s  heresy  was  forgotten  and  his 
religion  merely  smiled  at.  Certainly 
it  struck  no  roots  outside  his  own 
heart.  Even  his  family  did  not  share 
his  belief.  When  he  married,  as  he  did 
14 


THE    VOICE 


when  he  was  nearly  fifty,  his  wife  was 
impatient  with  his  Faith — indeed,  fear 
ful  of  it,  and  with  persistent,  nagging 
reasonableness  urged  his  return  to 
the  respectable  paths  of  Presbyterian- 
ism.  To  his  pain,  when  his  girl,  his 
Philippa,  grew  up  she  shrank  from 
the  emotion  of  his  creed;  she  and  her 
mother  went  to  the  brick  church  under 
the  locust-trees  of  Lower  Ripple;  and 
when  her  mother  died  Philippa  went 
there  alone,  for  Henry  Roberts,  not 
being  permitted  to  bear  witness  in  the 
Church,  did  so  out  of  it,  by  sitting  at 
home  on  the  Sabbath  day,  in  a  bare 
upper  chamber,  waiting  for  the  mani 
festation  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  It  never 
came.  The  Tongues  never  spoke.  Yet 
still,  while  the  years  passed,  he  waited, 
—  listening  -  -  listening  -  -  listening  ;  a 
kindly,  simple  old  man  with  mystical 
brown  eyes,  believing  meekly  in  his 
own  unworth  to  hear  again  that  Sound 
from  Heaven,  as  of  a  rushing,  mighty 
15 


THE    VOICE 


wind,  that  had  filled  the  London  Chapel, 
bowing  human  souls  before  it  as  a  great 
wind  bows  the  standing  corn! 

It  was  late  in  the  sixties  that  Henry 
Roberts  brough  this  faith  and  his  Phi- 
lippa  to  the  stone  house  on  the  Perry- 
ville  pike,  where,  after  some  months 
had  passed,  they  were  discovered  by 
the  old  and  the  young  ministers.  The 
two  clergymen  met  once  or  twice  in 
their  calls  upon  the  new-comer,  and 
each  acquired  an  opinion  of  the  other: 
John  Fenn  said  to  himself  that  the  old 
minister  was  a  good  man,  if  he  was  an 
Episcopalian;  and  Dr.  Lavendar  said 
to  William  King  that  he  hoped  there 
would  be  a  match  between  the  "  theo- 
log"  and  Philippa. 

"The  child  ought  to  be  married  and 
have  a  dozen  children,"  he  said;  "al 
though  Fenn's  little  sister  will  do  to 
begin  on — she  needs  mothering  badly 
enough.  Yes,  Miss  Philly  ought  to  be 
making  smearkase  and  apple-butter  for 
16 


THE    VOICE 


that  pale  and  excellent  young  man. 
He  intimated  that  I  was  a  follower  of 
the  Scarlet  Woman  because  I  wore  a 
surplice/' 

"Now  look  here!  I  draw  the  line 
at  that  sort  of  talk,"  the  doctor  said; 
"he  can  lay  down  the  law  to  me,  all  he 
wants  to;  but  when  it  comes  to  in 
structing  you — " 

"Oh,  well,  he's  young,"  Dr.  Laven- 
dar  soothed  him;  "you  can't  expect 
him  not  to  know  everything  at  his  age." 

"He's  a  squirt,"  said  William.  In 
those  days  in  Old  Chester  middle  age 
was  apt  to  sum  up  its  opinion  of  youth 
in  this  expressive  word. 

"We  were  all  squirts  once,"  said  Dr. 
Lavendar,  "and  very  nice  boys  we  were, 
too — at  least  I  was.  Yes,  I  hope  the 
youngster  will  see  what  a  sweet  crea 
ture  old  Roberts's  Philippa  is." 

She  was  a  sweet  creature;  but  as 
William  King  said,  she  was  amusingly 
old-fashioned.  The  Old  Chester  girl  of 
17 


THE    VOICE 


those  days,  who  seems  (to  look  back 
upon  her  in  these  days)  so  medieval, 
was  modern  compared  to  Philippa !  But 
there  was  nothing  mystical  about  her; 
she  was  just  modest  and  full  of  pleas 
ant  silences  and  soft  gaieties  and  sim 
ple,  startling  truth  -  telling.  At  first, 
when  they  came  to  live  near  Perryville, 
she  used,  when  the  weather  was  fine,  to 
walk  over  the  grassy  road,  under  the 
brown  and  white  branches  of  the  syca 
mores,  into  Old  Chester,  to  Dr.  Laven- 
dar's  church.  "I  like  to  come  to  your 
church,"  she  told  him,  "because  you 
don't  preach  quite  such  long  sermons  as 
Mr.  Fenn  does."  But  when  it  rained 
or  was  very  hot  she  chose  the  shorter 
walk  and  sat  under  John  Fenn,  looking 
up  at  his  pale,  ascetic  face,  lighted  from 
within  by  his  young  certainties  con 
cerning  the  old  ignorances  of  people  like 
Dr.  Lavendar — life  and  death  and  eter 
nity.  Of  Dr.  Lavendar's  one  certainty, 
Love,  he  was  deeply  ignorant,  this 
18 


THE    VOICE 


honest  boy,  who  was  so  concerned  for 
Philippa's  father's  soul!  But  Philippa 
did  not  listen  much  to  his  certainties ;  she 
coaxed  his  little  sister  into  her  pew,  and 
sat  with  the  child  cuddled  up  against 
her,  watching  her  turn  over  the  leaves  of 
the  hymn-book  or  trying  to  braid  the 
fringe  of  Miss  Philly's  black  silk  man 
tilla  into  little  pigtails.  Sometimes  Miss 
Philly  would  look  up  at  the  careworn 
young  face  in  the  pulpit  and  think  how 
holy  Mary's  brother  was,  and  how 
learned — and  how  shabby;  for  he  had 
only  a  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Semple,  to 
take  care  of  him  and  Mary.  Not  but 
what  he  might  have  had  somebody 
besides  Mrs.  Semple!  Philippa,  for  all 
her  innocence,  could  not  help  being 
aware  that  he  might  have  had — almost 
anybody!  For  others  of  Philly's  sex 
watched  the  rapt  face  there  in  the  pul 
pit.  When  Philippa  thought  of  that, 
a  slow  blush  used  to  creep  up  to  her 
very  temples.  She  saw  him  oftener  in 
19 


THE    VOICE 


the  pulpit  than  out  of  it,  because  when 
he  came  to  call  on  her  father  she  was 
apt  not  to  be  present. 

At  first  he  came  very  frequently  to 
see  the  Irvingite,  because  he  felt  it  his- 
duty  to  "deal"  with  him;  but  he  made 
so  little  impression  that  he  foresaw  the 
time  when  it  would  be  necessary  to 
say  that  Ephraim  was  joined  to  his 
idols.  But  though  it  might  be  right 
to  "let  him  alone,"  he  could  not  stop 
calling  at  Henry  Roberts's  house ;  ' '  f or, " 
he  reminded  himself,  "the  believing 
daughter  may  sanctify  the  unbelieving 
father!"  He  said  this  once  to  Dr. 
Lavendar,  when  his  roan  and  old  Go 
liath  met  in  a  narrow  lane  and  paused 
to  let  their  masters  exchange  a  word  or 
two. 

"But  do  you  know  what  the  believing 
daughter  believes?"  said  Dr.  Lavendar. 
He  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  red  ban 
danna,  for  it  was  a  hot  day;  then  he  put 
his  old  straw  hat  very  far  back  on  his  head 

20 


THE    VOICE 


and  looked  at  the  young  man  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  which,  considering 
the  seriousness  of  their  conversation, 
was  discomfiting;  but,  after  all,  as 
John  Fenn  reminded  himself,  Dr.  Lav- 
endar  was  very  old,  and  so  might  be 
forgiven  if  his  mind  was  lacking  in  seri 
ousness.  As  for  his  question  of  what 
the  daughter  believed: 

"I  think — I  hope/'  said  the  young 
minister,  "  that  she  is  sound.  She  comes 
to  my  church  quite  regularly. " 

"But  she  comes  to  my  church  quite 
irregularly,"  Dr.  Lavendar  warned  him; 
and  there  was  another  of  those  discon 
certing  twinkles. 

The  boy  looked  at  him  with  honest, 
solemn  eyes.  "I  still  believe  that  she 
is  sound,"  he  said,  earnestly. 

Dr.  Lavendar  blew  his  nose  with  a  flour 
ish  of  the  red  bandanna.  "  Well,  perhaps 
she  is,  perhaps  she  is,"  he  said,  gravely. 

But  the  reassurance  of  that ' '  perhaps  " 
did  not  make  for  John  Fenn's  peace  of 

21 


THE    VOICE 


mind;  he  could  not  help  asking  him 
self  whether  Miss  Philippa  was  a  "be 
lieving  daughter."  She  did  not,  he  was 
sure,  share  her  father's  heresies,  but 
perhaps  she  was  indifferent  to  them? 
— which  would  be  a  grievous  thing! 
And  certainly,  as  the  old  minister  had 
declared,  she  did  go  "irregularly"  to  the' 
Episcopal  Church.  John  Fenn  wished 
that  he  was  sure  of  Miss  Philippa' s 
state  of  mind;  and  at  last  he  said  to 
himself  that  it  was  his  duty  to  find  out 
about  it,  so,  with  his  little  sister  beside 
him,  he  started  on  a  round  of  pastoral 
calls.  He  found  Miss  Philly  sitting  in 
the  sunshine  on  the  lowest  step  of  the 
front  porch — and  it  seemed  to  Mary 
that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  delay  in 
getting  at  the  serious  business  of  play; 
"for  brother  talks  so  much,"  she  com 
plained.  But  "brother"  went  on  talk 
ing.  He  told  Miss  Philippa  that  he 
understood  she  went  sometimes  to  Old 
Chester  to  church? 

22 


THE    VOICE 


"Sometimes,"  she  said. 

"I  do  not  mean,"  he  said,  hesitating 
ly,  "to  speak  uncharitably,  but  we  all 
know  that  Episcopacy  is  the  handmaid 
of  Papistry." 

"Do  we?"  Philly  asked,  with  grave 
eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Fenn.  "But  even 
if  Dr.  Lavendar's  teachings  are  de 
fective," — Mary  plucked  at  his  sleeve, 
and  sighed  loudly;  "(no,  Mary!)— 
even  if  his  teachings  are  defective,  he 
is  a  good  man  according  to  his  lights; 
I  am  sure  of  that.  Still,  do  you  think 
it  well  to  attend  a  place  of  worship 
when  you  cannot  follow  the  pastor's 
teachings?" 

"I  love  him.  And  I  don't  listen  to 
what  he  says,"  she  excused  herself. 

"But  you  should  listen  to  what  min 
isters  say,"  the  shocked  young  man  pro 
tested — "at  least  to  ministers  of  the 
right  faith.  But  you  should  not  go  to 
church  because  you  love  ministers." 
23 


THE    VOICE 


Philippa's  face  flamed.  "I  do  not 
love — most  of  them." 

Mary,  leaning  against  the  girl's  knee, 
looked  up  anxiously  into  her  face.  "Do 
you  love  brother?"  she  said. 

They  were  a  pretty  pair,  the  child  and 
the  girl,  sitting  there  on  the  porch  with 
the  sunshine  sifting  down  through  the 
lacy  leaves  of  the  two  big  locusts  on 
either  side  of  the  door.  Philippa  wore 
a  pink  and  green  palm-leaf  chintz;  it 
had  six  ruffles  around  the  skirt  and 
was  gathered  very  full  about  her  slen 
der  waist;  her  lips  were  red,  and  her 
cheeks  and  even  her  neck  were  deli 
cately  flushed;  her  red-brown  hair  was 
blowing  all  about  her  temples;  Mary 
had  put  an  arm  around  her  and 
was  cuddling  against  her.  Yes,  even 
Mary's  brother  would  have  thought 
the  two  young  things  a  pretty  sight 
had  there  been  nothing  more  seri 
ous  to  think  of.  But  John  Fenn's 
thoughts  were  so  very  serious  that  even 
24 


THE    VOICE 


Mary's  question  caused  him  no  embar 
rassment;  he  merely  said,  stiffly,  that 
he  would  like  to  see  Miss  Philippa 
alone.  "You  may  wait  here,  Mary," 
he  told  his  little  sister,  who  frowned 
and  sighed  and  went  out  to  the  gate 
to  pull  a  handful  of  grass  for  the  roan. 
Philippa  led  her  caller  to  her  rarely 
used  parlor,  and  sat  down  to  listen  in 
silent  pallor  to  his  exhortations.  She 
made  no  explanations  for  not  coming 
to  his  church  regularly;  she  offered  no 
excuse  of  filial  tenderness  for  her  indif 
ference  to  her  father's  mistaken  beliefs; 
she  looked  down  at  her  hands,  clasped 
tightly  in  her  lap,  then  out  of  the  window 
at  the  big  roan  biting  at  the  hitching- 
post  or  standing  very  still  to  let  Mary  rub 
his  silky  nose.  But  John  Fenn  looked 
only  at  Philippa.  Of  her  father's  heresies 
he  would  not,  he  said,  do  more  than 
remind  her  that  the  wiles  of  the  devil 
against  her  soul  might  present  them 
selves  through  her  natural  affections; 

3  25 


THE    VOICE 


but  in  regard  to  her  failure  to  wait 
upon  the  means  of  grace  he  spoke 
without  mercy,  for,  he  said,  "faithful 
are  the  wounds  of  a  friend." 

"Are  you  my  friend?"  Philly  asked, 
lifting  her  gray  eyes  suddenly. 

Mr.  Fenn  was  greatly  confused;  the 
text-books  of  the  Western  Seminary  had 
not  supplied  him  with  the  answer  to 
such  a  question.  He  explained,  hur 
riedly,  that  he  was  the  friend  of  all 
who  wished  for  salvation. 

"I  do  not  especially  wish  for  it," 
Philippa  said,  very  low. 

For  a  moment  John  Fenn  was  silent 
with  horror.  "That  one  so  young 
should  be  so  hardened!"  he  thought; 
aloud,  he  bade  her  remember  hell  fire. 
He  spoke  with  that  sad  and  simple 
acceptance  of  the  fact  with  which,  even 
less  than  fifty  years  ago,  men  humbled 
themselves  before  the  mystery  which 
they  had  themselves  created,  of  divine 
injustice.  She  must  know,  he  said, 
26 


THE    VOICE 


his  voice  trembling  with  sincerity,  that 
those  who  slighted  the  offers  of  grace 
were  cast  into  outer  darkness? 
Philly  said,  softly,  "Maybe." 
"'Maybe?'  Alas,  it  is,  certainly! 
Oh,  why,  why  do  you  absent  yourself 
from  the  house  of  God?"  he  said, 
holding  out  entreating  hands.  Philip- 
pa  made  no  reply.  "Let  us  pray!" 
said  the  young  man;  and  they  knelt 
down  side  by  side  in  the  shadowy 
parlor.  John  Fenn  lifted  his  harsh, 
melancholy  face,  gazing  upward  pas 
sionately,  while  he  wrestled  for  her 
salvation;  Philly,  looking  downward, 
tracing  with  a  trembling  finger  the  pat 
tern  of  the  beadwork  on  the  ottoman 
before  which  she  knelt,  listened  with  an 
inward  shiver  of  dismay  and  ecstasy. 
But  when  they  rose  to  their  feet  she 
had  nothing  to  say.  He,  too,  was  si 
lent.  He  went  away  quite  exhausted 
by  his  struggle  with  this  impassive,  un 
resisting  creature. 

27 


THE    VOICE 


He  hardly  spoke  to  Mary  all  the  way 
home.  "A  hardened  sinner,"  he  was 
thinking.  "Poor,  lovely  creature!  So 
young  and  so  lost!"  Under  Mary's  in 
cessant  chatter,  her  tugs  at  the  end  of 
the  reins,  her  little  bursts  of  joy  at  the 
sight  of  a  bird  or  a  roadside  flower,  he 
was  thinking,  with  a  strange  new  pain — a 
pain  no  other  sinner  had  ever  roused  in 
him — of  the  girl  he  had  left.  He 
knew  that  his  arguments  had  not 
moved  her.  "I  believe,"  he  thought, 
the  color  rising  in  his  face,  "that 
she  dislikes  me!  She  says  she  loves 
Dr.  Lavendar;  yes,  she  must  dislike  me. 
Is  my  manner  too  severe?  Perhaps 
my  appearance  is  unattractive."  He 
looked  down  at  his  coat  uneasily. 

As  for  Philly,  left  to  herself,  she 
picked  up  a  bit  of  sewing,  and  her  face, 
at  first  pale,  grew  slowly  pink.  "He 
only  likes  sinners,"  she  thought;  "and, 
oh,  I  am  not  a  sinner!" 


PHILTPPA    SAT    WITH    HER    FATHER,  IN    THE    SILENT    UPPER 
CHAMBER 


CHAPTER  II 

AFTER  that  on  Sabbath  mornings 
1\  Philippa  sat  with  her  father,  in 
the  silent  upper  chamber.  At  first 
Henry  Roberts,  listening — listening— 
for  the  Voice,  thought,  rapturously, 
that  at  the  eleventh  hour  he  was  to 
win  a  soul — the  most  precious  soul  in  his 
world! — to  his  faith.  But  when,  after  a 
while,  he  questioned  her,  he  saw  that 
this  was  not  so;  she  stayed  away 
from  other  churches,  but  not  because 
she  cared  for  his  church.  This  troubled 
him,  for  the  faith  he  had  outgrown 
was  better  than  no  faith. 

"Do  you  have  doubts  concerning  the 
soundness  of  either  of  the  ministers — the 
old  man  or  the  young  man?"  he  asked  her, 
looking  at  her  with  mild,  anxious  eyes. 

20 


THE    VOICE 


"Oh  no,  sir,"  Philly  said,  smiling. 

"Do  you  dislike  them — the  young 
man  or  the  old  man?" 

"Oh  no,  father.  I  love  —  one  of 
them." 

"Then  why  not  go  to  his  church? 
Either  minister  can  give  you  the  seeds 
of  salvation;  one  not  less  than  the 
other.  Why  not  sit  under  either  min 
istry?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Philippa  said,  faint 
ly.  And  indeed  she  did  not  know  why 
she  absented  herself.  She  only  knew 
two  things:  that  the  young  man  seemed 
to  disapprove  of  the  old  man;  and  when 
she  saw  the  young  man  in  the  pulpit, 
impersonal  and  holy,  she  suffered. 
Therefore  she  would  not  go  to  hear 
either  man. 

When  Dr.  Lavendar  came  to  call  upon 
her  father,  he  used  to  glance  at  Philippa 
sometimes  over  his  spectacles  while 
Henry  Roberts  was  arguing  about  proph 
ecies;  but  he  never  asked  her  why  she 
30 


THE    VOICE 


stayed  away  from  church;  instead,  he 
talked  to  her  about  John  Fenn,  and  he 
seemed  pleased  when  he  heard  that  the 
young  man  was  doing  his  duty  in 
making  pastoral  calls.  "And  I  —  7, 
unworthy  as  I  was!"  Henry  Roberts 
would  say,  "I  heard  the  Voice,  speaking 
through  a  sister's  lips;  and  it  said:  Oh, 
sinner!  for  what,  for  what,  what  can 
separate,  separate,  from  the  love.  .  .  . 
Oh,  nothing.  Oh,  nothing.  Oh,  noth 
ing."  He  would  stare  at  Dr.  Lavendar 
with  parted  lips.  ' '  /  heard  it, ' '  he  would 
say,  in  a  whisper. 

And  Dr.  Lavendar,  bending  his  head 
gravely,  would  be  silent  for  a  respectful 
moment,  and  then  he  would  look  at 
Philippa.  "You  are  teaching  Fenn's 
sister  to  sew?"  he  would  say.  "Very 
nice!  Very  nice!" 

Philly  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  sister 
that  summer;  the  young  minister,  rec 
ognizing  Miss  Philippa's  fondness  for 
Mary,  and  remembering  a  text  as  to  the 
31 


THE    VOICE 


leading  of  a  child,  took  pains  to  bring  the 
little  girl  to  Henry  Roberts's  door  once 
or  twice  a  week;  and  as  August  burned 
away  into  September  Philippa's  pleas 
ure  in  her  was  like  a  soft  wind  blowing 
on  the  embers  of  her  heart  and  kindling 
a  flame  for  which  she  knew  no  name. 
She  thought  constantly  of  Mary,  and 
had  many  small  anxieties  about  her— 
her  dress,  her  manners,  her  health;  she 
even  took  the  child  into  Old  Chester 
one  day  to  get  William  King  to  pull  a 
little  loose  white  tooth.  Philly  shook 
very  much  during  the  operation  and 
mingled  her  tears  with  Mary's  in  that 
empty  and  bleeding  moment  that  fol 
lows  the  loss  of  a  tooth.  She  was  so 
passionately  tender  with  the  little  girl 
that  the  doctor  told  Dr.  Lavendar  that 
his  match-making  scheme  seemed  likely 
to  prosper — "  she's  so  fond  of  the  sister, 
—you  should  have  heard  her  sympathize 
with  the  little  thing! — that  I  think  she 
will  smile  on  the  brother,"  he  said. 
32 


THE    VOICE 


"I'm  afraid  the  brother  hasn't  cut  his 
wisdom  teeth  yet,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said, 
doubtfully;  "if  he  had,  you  might  pull 
them,  and  she  could  sympathize  with 
him;  then  it  would  all  arrange  itself. 
Well,  he's  a  nice  boy,  a  nice  boy; — and 
he  won't  know  so  much  when  he  gets  a 
little  older." 

It  was  on  the  way  home  from  Dr. 
King's  that  Philippa's  feeling  of  re 
sponsibility  about  Mary  brought  her  a 
sudden  temptation.  They  were  walk 
ing  hand  in  hand  along  the  road.  The 
leaves  on  the  mottled  branches  of  the 
sycamores  were  thinning  now,  and  the 
sunshine  fell  warm  upon  the  two  young 
things,  who  were  still  a  little  shaken 
from  the  frightful  experience  of  tooth- 
pulling.  The  doctor  had  put  the  small 
white  tooth  in  a  box  and  gravely  pre 
sented  it  to  Mary,  and  now,  as  they 
walked  along,  she  stopped  sometimes 
to  examine  it  and  say,  proudly,  how  she 
had  "bleeded  and  bleeded!" 

33 


THE    VOICE 


"Will  you  tell  brother  the  doctor 
said  I  behaved  better  than  the  circus 
lion  when  his  tooth  was  pulled?" 

"Indeed  I  will,  Mary!" 

"An'  he  said  he'd  rather  pull  my 
tooth  than  a  lion's  tooth?" 

"Of  course  I'll  tell  him." 

"Miss  Philly,  shall  I  dream  of  my 
tooth,  do  you  suppose?" 

Philippa  laughed  and  said  she  didn't 
know. 

"I  hope  I  will;  it  means  something 
nice.  I  forget  what,  now." 

"Dreams  don't  mean  anything, 
Mary." 

"Oh  yes,  they  do!"  the  child  assured 
her,  skipping  along  with  one  arm  round 
the  girl's  slender  waist.  "Mrs.  Semple 
has  a  dream-book,  and  she  reads  it  to 
me  every  day,  an'  she  reads  me  what 
my  dreams  mean.  Sometimes  I  haven't 
any  dreams,"  Mary  admitted,  regret 
fully,  "but  she  reads  all  the  same. 
Did  you  ever  dream  about  a  black  ox 

34 


THE    VOICE 


walking  on  its  back  legs?  I  never  did. 
I  don't  want  to.  It  means  trouble." 

"Goosey!"  said  Miss  Philippa. 

"If  you  dream  of  the  moon,"  Mary 
went  on,  happily,  "it  means  you  are 
going  to  have  a  beau  who'll  love  you." 

"Little  girls  mustn't  talk  about  love," 
Philippa  said,  gravely;  but  the  color 
came  suddenly  into  her  face.  To  dream 
of  the  moon  means —  Why!  but  only 
the  night  before  she  had  dreamed  that 
she  had  been  walking  in  the  fields  and 
had  seen  the  moon  rise  over  shocks  of 
corn  that  stood  against  the  sky  like  the 
plumed  heads  of  Indian  warriors !  "  Such 
things  are  foolish,  Mary,"  Miss  Philly 
said,  her  cheeks  very  pink.  And  while 
Mary  chattered  on  about  Mrs.  Semple's 
book  Philippa  was  silent,  remembering 
how  yellow  the  great  flat  disk  of  the 
moon  had  been  in  her  dream;  how  it 
pushed  up  from  behind  the  black  edge 
of  the  world,  and  how,  suddenly,  the 
misty  stubble-field  was  flooded  with  its 
35 


THE    VOICE 


strange  light: — "you  are  going  to  have 
a  beau!" 

Philippa  wished  she  might  see  the 
book,  just  to  know  what  sort  of  things 
were  read  to  Mary.  "It  isn't  right  to 
read  them  to  the  child/'  she  thought; 
"it's  a  foolish  book,  Mary,"  she  said, 
aloud.  "I  never  saw  such  a  book." 

"I'll  bring  it  the  next  time  I  come," 
Mary  promised. 

"Oh  no,  no,"  Philly  said,  a  little 
breathlessly;  "it's  a  wrong  book.  I 
couldn't  read  such  a  book,  except — 
except  to  tell  you  how  foolish  and  wrong 
it  is." 

Mary  was  not  concerned  with  her 
friend's  reasons;  but  she  remembered 
to  bring  the  ragged  old  book  with  her 
the  very  next  time  her  brother  dropped 
her  at  Mr.  Roberts's  gate  to  spend 
an  hour  with  Miss  Philippa.  There 
had  to  be  a  few  formal  words  between 
the  preacher  and  the  sinner  before 
Mary  had  entire  possession  of  her  play- 
36 


THE    VOICE 


mate,  but  when  her  brother  drove 
away,  promising  to  call  for  her  later 
in  the  afternoon,  she  became  so  en 
grossed  in  the  important  task  of  pick 
ing  hollyhock  seeds  that  she  quite  for 
got  the  dream-book.  The  air  was  hazy 
with  autumn,  and  full  of  the  scent  of 
fallen  leaves  and  dew-drenched  grass 
and  of  the  fresh  tan-bark  on  the  garden 
paths.  On  the  other  side  of  the  road 
was  a  corn-field,  where  the  corn  stood 
in  great  shocks.  Philly  looked  over  at 
it,  and  drew  a  quick  breath, — her  dream! 

"Did  you  bring  that  foolish  book?" 
she  said, 

Mary,  slapping  her  pocket,  laughed 
loudly.  "I  'most  forgot!  Yes,  ma'am; 
I  got  it.  I'll  show  what  it  says  about 
the  black  ox — " 

"No;  you  needn't,"  Miss  Philly  said; 
"you  pick  some  more  seeds  for  me,  and 
I'll — just  look  at  it."  She  touched  the 
stained  old  book  with  shrinking  finger 
tips  ;  the  moldering  leather  cover  and  the 
37 


THE    VOICE 


odor  of  soiled  and  thumb-marked  leaves 
offended  her.  The  first  page  was  folded 
over,  and  when  she  spread  it  out,  the  yel 
lowing  paper  cracked  along  its  ancient 
creases;  it  was  a  map,  with  the  signs 
of  the  Zodiac;  in  the  middle  was  a 
single  verse: 

Mortal!     Wouldst  thou  scan  aright 
Dreams  and  visions  of  the  night? 
Wouldst  thou  future  secrets  learn 
And  the  fate  of  dreams  discern? 
Wouldst  thou  ope  the  Curtain  dark 
And  thy  future  fortune  mark? 
Try  the  mystic  page,  and  read 
What  the  vision  has  decreed. 

Philly,  holding  her  red  lip  between 
her  teeth,  turned  the  pages: 

"  Money.  To  dream  of  finding  money; 
mourning  and  loss. 

11  Monkey.     You  have  secret  enemies. 

"Moon"  (Philippa  shivered.)  "A 
good  omen;  it  denotes  coming  joy.  Great 
success  in  love.11 

She  shut  the  book  sharply,  then 
38 


THE    VOICE 


opened  it  again.  Such  books  sometimes 
told  (so  foolishly!)  of  charms  which 
would  bring  love.  She  looked  furtively 
at  Mary;  but  the  child,  pulling  down 
a  great  hollyhock  to  pick  the  fuzzy 
yellow  disks,  was  not  noticing  Miss 
Philly's  interest  in  the  "foolish  book." 
Philippa  turned  over  the  pages.  Yes; 
the  charms  were  there!  .  .  . 

Instructions  for  making  dumb-cake, 
to  cut  which  reveals  a  lover :  "Any  num 
ber  of  young  females  shall  take  a  handful 
of  wheaten  flour — "  That  was  no  use; 
there  were  too  many  females  as  it 
was! 

"  To  know  whether  a  man  shall  have  the 
woman  he  wishes."  Philippa  sighed. 
Not  that.  A  holy  man  does  not 
"  wish  "  for  a  woman. 

'  '  A  charm  to  charm  a  man's  love. ' '  The 
blood  suddenly  ran  tingling  in  Philly's 
veins.  "Let  a  young  maid  pick  of 
rosemary  two  roots;  of  monk's-hood— 
A  line  had  been  drawn  through  this 
39 


THE    VOICE 


last  word,  and  another  word  written 
above  it;  but  the  ink  was  so  faded, 
the  page  so  woolly  and  thin  with 
use,  that  it  was  impossible  to  decipher 
the  correction;  perhaps  it  was  " mother- 
wort,"  an  herb  Philly  did  not  know; 
or  it  might  be  " mandrake"?  It  looked 
as  much  like  one  as  the  other,  the  writ 
ing  was  so  blurred  and  dim.  "It  is 
best  to  take  what  the  book  says,"  Philly 
said,  simply;  "besides,  I  haven't  those 
other  things  in  the  garden,  and  I  have 
monk's-hood  and  rosemary — if  I  should 
want  to  do  it,  just  for  fun." 

11  Of  monk's-hood  two  roots,  and  of  the 
flower  of  corn  ten  threads;  let  her  sleep 
on  them  one  night.  In  the  morning  let 
her  set  them  on  her  heart  and  walk  back 
wards  ten  steps,  praying  for  the  love  of  her 
beloved.  Let  her  then  steep  and  boil  these, 
things  in  four  gills  of  pure  water  on  which 
the  moon  has  shone  for  one  night.  When 
she  shall  add  this  philter  to  the  drink  of 
the  one  who  loves  her  not,  he  shall  love 
40 


THE    VOICE 


the  female  who  meets  his  eye  first  after 
the  drinking  thereof.  Therefore  let  the 
young  maid  be  industrious  to  stand  before 
him  when  he  shall  drink  it.11 

''There  is  no  harm  in  it,"  said  Philly. 


CHAPTER  III 

"  OOMEBODY  making  herb  tea  and 

O  stealing  my  business?"  said  Will 
iam  King,  in  his  kindly  voice;  he  had 
called  to  see  old  Hannah,  who  had 
been  laid  up  for  a  day  or  two,  and  he 
stopped  at  the  kitchen  door  to  look 
in.  Henry  Roberts,  coming  from  the 
sitting-room  to  join  him,  asked  his 
question,  too: 

"What  is  this  smell  of  herbs,  Philip- 
pa?  Are  you  making  a  drink  for  Han 
nah?" 

"Oh  no,  father,"  Philly  said,  briefly, 
her  face  very  pink. 

William    King   sniffed   and   laughed. 

"Ah,  I  see  you  don't  give  away  your 

secrets  to  a  rival,"  he  said;   and  added, 

pleasantly,    "but  don't  give  your  tea 

42 


THE    VOICE 


to  Hannah  without  telling  me  what 
it  is." 

Miss  Philippa  said,  dutifully,  "Oh  no, 
sir."  But  she  did  not  tell  him  what 
the  "  tea  "  was,  and  certainly  she  offered 
none  of  it  to  old  Hannah.  All  that  day 
there  was  a  shy  joyousness  about  her, 
with  sudden  soft  blushes,  and  once  or 
twice  a  little  half -frightened  laugh ;  there 
was  a  puzzled  look,  too,  in  her  face, 
as  if  she  was  not  quite  sure  just  what 
she  was  going  to  do,  or  rather,  how  she 
was  going  to  do  it.  And,  of  course, 
that  was  the  difficulty.  How  could  she 
"add  the  philter  to  the  drink  of  one 
who  loved  her  not "? 

Yet  it  came  about  simply  enough. 
John  Fenn  had  lately  felt  it  borne  in 
upon  him  that  it  was  time  to  make  an 
other  effort  to  deal  with  Henry  Roberts; 
perhaps,  he  reasoned,  to  show  concern 
about  the  father 's  soul  might  touch  the 
daughter's  hardened  heart.  It  was  when 
he  reached  this  conclusion  that  he  com- 
43 


THE    VOICE 


mitted  the  extravagance  of  buying  a 
new  coat.  So  it  happened  that  that 
very  afternoon,  while  the  house  was 
still  pungent  with  the  scent  of  steep 
ing  herbs,  he  came  to  Henry  Roberts's 
door,  and  knocked  solemnly,  as  be 
fitted  his  errand;  (but  as  he  heard 
her  step  in  the  hall  he  passed  an  anx 
ious  hand  over  a  lapel  of  the  new 
coat).  Her  father,  she  said,  was  not 
at  home;  would  Mr.  Fenn  come  in 
and  wait  for  him?  Mr.  Fenn  said  he 
would.  And  as  he  always  tried,  poor 
boy!  to  be  instant  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  he  took  the  opportunity,  while 
he  waited  for  her  father  and  she  brought 
him  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  piece  of  cake, 
to  reprove  her  again  for  absence  from 
church.  But  she  was  so  meek  that  he 
found  it  hard  to  inflict  those  "  faithful 
wounds"  which  should  prove  his  friend 
ship  for  her  soul;  she  sat  before  him 
on  the  slippery  horsehair  sofa  in  the 
parlor,  her  hands  locked  tightly  to- 

44 


THE    VOICE 


gether  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  downcast,  her 
voice  very  low  and  trembling.  She  ad 
mitted  her  backslidings :  she  acknowl 
edged  her  errors;  but  as  for  coming  to 
church — she  shook  her  head: 

"Please,  I  won't  come  to  church 
yet." 

"You  mean  you  will  come,  some 
time?" 

"Yes;    sometime." 

"Behold,  now  is  the  accepted  time!" 

"I  will  come  .  .  .  afterwards." 

"After  what?"  he  insisted. 

"After — "  she  said,  and  paused. 
Then  suddenly  lifted  bold,  guileless 
eyes:  "After  you  stop  caring  for  my 
soul." 

John  Fenn  caught  his  breath.  Some 
thing,  he  did  not  know  what,  seemed  to 
jar  him  rudely  from  that  pure  desire 
for  her  salvation;  he  said,  stumblingly, 
that  he  would  always  care  for  her  soul!— 
"for — for  any  one's  soul."  And  was 
she  quite  well?  His  voice  broke  with 
45 


THE    VOICE 


tenderness.  She  must  be  careful  to 
avoid  the  chill  of  these  autumnal  after 
noons;  "you  are  pale,"  he  said,  pas 
sionately —  "don't  —  oh,  don't  be  so 
pale!"  It  occurred  to  him  that  if  she 
waited  for  him  "not  to  care"  for  her 
salvation,  she  might  die  in  her  sins; 
die  before  coming  to  the  gate  of  heaven, 
which  he  was  so  anxious  to  open  to 
her! 

Philippa  did  not  see  his  agitation; 
she  was  not  looking  at  him.  She  only 
said,  softly,  "Perhaps  you  will  stay  to 
tea?" 

He  answered  quickly  that  he  would 
be  pleased  to  do  so.  In  the  simplicity 
of  his  saintly  egotism  it  occurred  to 
him  that  the  religious  pleasure  of  enter 
taining  him  might  be  a  means  of  grace 
to  her.  When  she  left  him  in  the  dusk 
of  the  chilly  room  to  go  and  see  to 
the  supper,  he  fell  into  silent  prayer 
for  the  soul  that  did  not  desire  his  care. 

Henry  Roberts,  summoned  by  his 
46 


THE    VOICE 


daughter  to  entertain  the  guest  until 
supper  was  ready,  found  him  sitting  in 
the  darkness  of  the  parlor;  the  old  man 
was  full  of  hospitable  apologies  for  his 
Philippa's  forgetfulness;  "she  did  not 
remember  the  lamp!"  he  lamented;  and 
making  his  way  through  the  twilight  of 
the  room,  he  took  off  the  prism-hung 
shade  of  the  tall  astral  lamp  on  the  cen 
ter-table,  and  fumbled  for  a  match  to 
light  the  charred  and  sticky  wick ;  there 
were  very  few  occasions  in  this  plain 
household  when  it  was  worth  while  to 
light  the  best  lamp!  This  was  one  of 
them,  for  in  those  days  the  office  dig 
nified  the  man  to  a  degree  that  is  hardly 
understood  now.  But  Henry  Roberts's 
concern  was  not  entirely  a  matter  of 
social  propriety;  it  was  a  desire  to 
propitiate  this  young  man  who  was 
living  in  certain  errors  of  belief,  so  that 
he  would  be  in  a  friendly  attitude  of 
mind  and  open  to  the  arguments  which 
were  always  burning  on  the  lips  of 
47 


THE    VOICE 


Edward  Irving's  follower.  He  did  not 
mean  to  begin  them  until  they  were  at 
supper;  so  he  and  John  Fenn  sat  in 
silence  waiting  Philippa's  summons  to 
the  dining-room.  Neither  of  them  had 
any  small  talk;  Mr.  Roberts  was  making 
sure  that  he  could  trust  his  memory 
to  repeat  those  wailing  cadences  of  the 
Voice,  and  John  Fenn,  still  shaken  by 
something  he  could  not  understand  that 
had  been  hidden  in  what  he  understood 
too  well — a  sinner's  indifference  to  grace 
—was  trying  to  get  back  to  his  serene, 
impersonal  arrogance. 

As  for  Philippa,  she  was  frightened 
at  her  temerity  in  having  invited  the 
minister  to  a  Hannahless  supper;  her 
flutter  of  questions  as  to  "what"  and 
"how"  brought  the  old  woman  from  her 
bed,  in  spite  of  the  girl's  half-hearted 
protests  that  she  "mustn't  think  of 
getting  up!  Just  tell  me  what  to  do," 
she  implored,  "I  can  manage.  We  are 
going  to  have — tea!" 
48 


THE    VOICE 


"We  always  have  tea,"  Hannah  said, 
sourly;  yet  she  was  not  really  sour,  for, 
like  William  King  and  Dr.  Lavendar, 
Hannah  had  discerned  possibilities  in 
the  Rev.  John  Fenn's  pastoral  visits. 
"Get  your  Sunday-go-to-meeting  dress 
on,"  she  commanded,  hunching  a  shawl 
over  a  rheumatic  shoulder  and  motion 
ing  the  girl  out  of  the  kitchen. 

Philippa,  remorseful  and  breathless, 
ran  quickly  up  to  her  room  to  put  on 
her  best  frock,  smooth  her  shining  hair 
down  in  two  loops  over  her  ears,  and 
pin  her  one  adornment,  a  flat  gold 
brooch,  on  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  She 
lifted  her  candle  and  looked  at  herself 
in  the  black  depths  of  the  little  swing 
ing  glass  on  her  high  bureau,  and  her 
face  fell  into  sudden  wistful  lines.  "Oh, 
I  do  not  look  wicked,"  she  thought, 
despairingly. 

John  Fenn,  glancing  at  her  across  the 
supper-table,  had  some  such  thought 
himself;  how  strange  that  one  who  was 

49 


THE    VOICE 


so  perverted  in  belief  should  not  betray 
perversion  in  her  countenance.  "On 
the  contrary,  her  face  is  pleasing,"  he 
said,  simply.  He  feared,  noticing  the 
brooch,  that  she  was  vain,  as  well  as 
indifferent  to  her  privileges ;  he  wondered 
if  she  had  observed  his  new  coat. 

Philippa's  vanity  did  not,  at  any 
rate,  give  her  much  courage;  she  scarce 
ly  spoke,  except  to  ask  him  whether  he 
took  cream  and  sugar  in  his  tea.  When 
she  handed  his  cup  to  him,  she  said, 
very  low,  "Will  you  taste  it,  and  see 
if  it  is  right?" 

He  was  so  conscious  of  the  tremor 
of  her  voice  and  hand  that  he  made 
haste  to  reassure  her,  sipping  his  tea 
with  much  politeness  of  manner;  as  he 
did  so,  she  said,  suddenly,  and  with 
compelling  loudness,  "Is  it — agreeable?" 

John  Fenn,  startled,  looked  at  her 
over  the  rim  of  his  cup.  "Very;  very 
indeed,"  he  said,  quickly.  But  he  in 
stantly  drank  some  water.  "It  is,  per- 
50 


THE    VOICE 


haps,  a  little  strong,"  he  said,  blinking. 
Then,  having  qualified  his  politeness  for 
conscience*  sake,  he  drank  all  the  bitter 
tea  for  human  kindness'  sake — for  evi 
dently  Miss  Philippa  had  taken  pains 
to  give  him  what  he  might  like.  After 
that  she  did  not  speak,  but  her  face 
grew  very  rosy  while  she  sat  in  silence 
listening  to  her  father  and  their  guest. 
Henry  Roberts  forgot  to  eat,  in  the  pas 
sion  of  his  theological  arguments,  but  as 
supper  proceeded  he  found  his  antago 
nist  less  alert  than  usual;  the  minister 
defended  his  own  doctrines  instead  of 
attacking  those  of  his  host;  he  even 
admitted,  a  little  listlessly,  that  if  the 
Power  fell  upon  him,  if  he  himself  spoke 
in  a  strange  tongue,  then  perhaps  he 
would  believe — "that  is,  if  I  could  be 
sure  I  was  not  out  of  my  mind  at  the 
time,"  he  qualified,  dully.  Philippa 
took  no  part  in  the  discussion;  it  would 
not  have  been  thought  becoming  in 
her  to  do  so;  but  indeed,  she  hardly 
51 


THE    VOICE 


heard  what  the  two  men  were  saying. 
She  helped  old  Hannah  carry  away 
the  dishes,  and  then  sat  down  by  the 
table  and  drew  the  lamp  near  her 
so  that  she  could  sew;  she  sat  there 
smiling  a  little,  dimpling  even,  and 
looking  down  at  her  seam;  she  did  not 
notice  that  John  Fenn  was  being  worst 
ed,  or  that  once  he  failed  altogether  to 
reply,  and  sat  in  unprotesting  silence 
under  Henry  Roberts's  rapt  remem 
brances.  A  curious  blackness  had  set 
tled  under  his  eyes,  and  twice  he  passed 
his  hand  across  his  lips. 

"They  are  numb,"  he  said,  in  sur 
prised  apology  to  his  host.  A  moment 
later  he  shivered  violently,  beads  of 
sweat  burst  out  on  his  forehead,  and 
the  color  swept  from  his  face.  He 
started  up,  staring  wildly  about  him; 
he  tried  to  speak,  but  his  words 
stumbled  into  incoherent  babbling. 
It  was  all  so  sudden,  his  rising, 
then  falling  back  into  his  chair,  then 
52 


THE    VOICE 


slipping  sidewise  and  crumpling  up 
upon  the  floor,  all  the  while  stammer 
ing  unmeaning  words — that  Henry  Rob 
erts  sat  looking  at  him  in  dumb  amaze 
ment.  It  was  Philippa  who  cried  out 
and  ran  forward  to  help  him,  then 
stopped  midway,  her  hands  clutched 
together  at  her  throat,  her  eyes  dilating 
with  a  horror  that  seemed  to  paralyze 
her  so  that  she  was  unable  to  move  to 
his  assistance.  The  shocked  silence  of 
the  moment  was  broken  by  Fenn's 
voice,  trailing  on  and  on,  in  totally  un 
intelligible  words. 

Henry  Roberts,  staring  open-mouthed, 
suddenly  spoke:  "The  Voice!'1  he  said. 

But  Philippa,  as  though  she  were 
breaking  some  invisible  bond  that  held 
her,  groaning  even  with  the  effort  of 
it,  said,  in  a  whisper:  "  No.  Not  that. 
He  is  dying.  Don't  you  see?  That's 
what  it  is.  He  is  dying." 

Her  father,  shocked  from  his  ecstasy, 
ran  to  John  Fenn's  side,  trying  to  lift 
S3 


THE    VOICE 


him  and  calling  upon  him  to  say  what 
was  the  matter. 

"He  is  going  to  die/'  said  Philippa, 
monotonously. 

Henry  Roberts,  aghast,  calling  loudly 
to  old  Hannah,  ran  to  the  kitchen  and 
brought  back  a  great  bowl  of  hot  water. 
1  'Drink  it!"  he  said.  "Drink  it,  I  tell 
ye!  I  believe  you're  poisoned!" 

And  while  he  and  Hannah  bent  over 
the  unconscious  young  man,  Philippa 
seemed  to  come  out  of  her  trance; 
slowly,  with  upraised  hands,  and  head 
bent  upon  her  breast,  she  stepped  back 
ward,  backward,  out  of  the  room,  out 
of  the  house.  On  the  doorstep,  in  the 
darkness,  she  paused  and  listened  for 
several  minutes  to  certain  dreadful 
sounds  in  the  house.  Then,  suddenly, 
a  passion  of  purpose  swept  the  daze 
of  horror  away. 

"He  shall  not  die'1  she  said. 

She  flung  her  skirt  across  her  arm 
that  her  feet  might  not  be  hampered, 
54 


THE    VOICE 


and  fled  down  the  road  toward  Old 
Chester.  It  was  very  dark.  At  first 
her  eyes,  still  blurred  with  the  lamp 
light,  could  not  distinguish  the  foot 
path,  and  she  stumbled  over  the  grassy 
border  into  the  wheel-ruts;  then,  feeling 
the  loose  dust  tinder  her  feet,  she  ran 
and  ran  and  ran.  The  blood  began  to 
sing  in  her  ears;  once  her  throat  seemed 
to  close  so  that  she  could  not  breathe, 
and  for  a  moment  she  had  to  walk,— 
but  her  hands,  holding  up  her  skirts, 
trembled  with  terror  at  the  delay. 
The  road  was  very  dark  under  the 
sycamore-trees;  twice  she  tripped  and 
fell  into  the  brambles  at  one  side  or 
against  a  gravelly  bank  on  the  other. 
But  stumbling  somehow  to  her  feet, 
again  she  ran  and  ran  and  ran.  The 
night  was  very  still;  she  could  hear  her 
breath  tearing  her  throat;  once  she  felt 
something  hot  and  salty  in  her  mouth; 
it  was  then  she  had  to  stop  and  walk 
for  a  little  space — she  must  walk 
ss 


THE    VOICE 


or  fall  down!  And  she  could  not 
fall  down,  no!  no!  no!  he  would  die 
if  she  fell  down !  Once  a  figure  loomed 
up  in  the  haze,  and  she  caught  the 
glimmer  of  an  inquisitive  eye.  "Say,'* 
a  man's  voice  said,  "where  are  you 
bound  for?"  There  was  something  in 
the  tone  that  gave  her  a  stab  of  fright; 
for  a  minute  or  two  her  feet  seemed  to 
fly,  and  she  heard  a  laugh  behind  her 
in  the  darkness:  "What's  your  hurry?'* 
the  voice  called  after  her.  And  still 
she  ran.  But  she  was  saying  to  herself 
that  she  must  stop;  she  must  stand  still 
—just  for  a  moment.  "Oh,  just  for 
a  minute?"  her  body  whimperingly  en 
treated;  she  would  not  listen  to  it!  She 
must  not  listen,  even  though  her  heart 
burst  with  the  strain.  But  her  body 
had  its  way,  and  she  fell  into  a  walk, 
although  she  was  not  aware  of  it.  In  a 
gasping  whisper  she  was  saying,  over 
and  over:  "Doctor,  hurry;  he'll  die; 
hurry;  I  killed  him."  She  tried  to  be 
56 


THE    VOICE 


silent,  but  her  lips  moved  mechanically. 
" Doctor,  hurry;  he'll—  Oh,  I  mustn't 
talk!"  she  told  herself,  "it  takes  my 
breath"-— but  still  her  lips  moved.  She 
began  to  run,  heavily.  "I  can't  talk 
— if — I — run—  ' '  It  was  then  that  she 
saw  a  glimmer  of  light  and  knew  that 
she  was  almost  in  Old  Chester.  Very 
likely  she  would  have  fallen  if  she  had 
not  seen  that  far-off  window  just  when 
she  did. 

At  William  King's  house  she  dropped 
against  the  door,  her  fingers  still  cling 
ing  to  the  bell.  She  was  past  speaking 
when  the  doctor  lifted  her  and  carried 
her  into  the  office.  "No;  don't  try  to 
tell  me  what  it  is,"  he  said;  "I'll  put 
Jinny  into  the  buggy,  and  we'll  get 
back  in  a  jiffy.  I  understand ;  Hannah 
is  worse." 

"Not.  .  .  Hannah—" 

"Your  father?"  he  said,  picking  up 
his  medicine-case. 

"Not  father;    Mr.— Fenn— " 

5  57 


THE    VOICE 


As  the  doctor  hurried  out  to  the 
stable  to  hitch  up  he  bade  his  wife  put 
certain  remedies  into  his  bag, — "and 
look  after  that  child/'  he  called  over  his 
shoulder  to  his  efficient  Martha.  She 
was  so  efficient  that  when  he  had  brought 
Jinny  and  the  buggy  to  the  door,  Philly 
was  able  to  gasp  out  that  Mr.  Fenn 
was  sick.  "Dying." 

"Don't  try  to  talk,"  he  said  again, 
as  he  helped  her  into  the  buggy.  But 
after  a  while  she  was  able  to  tell  him, 
hoarsely: 

"  I  wanted  him  to  love  me."  William 
King  was  silent.  "I  used  a  charm.  It 
was  wicked." 

"Come,  come;  not  wicked,"  said  the 
doctor;  "a  little  foolish,  perhaps.  A 
new  frock,  and  a  rose  in  your  hair,  and 
a  smile  at  another  man,  would  be 
enough  of  a  charm,  my  dear." 

Philippa  shook  her  head.     "It  was 
not  enough.     I  wore  my  best  frock,  and 
I  went  to  Dr.  Lavendar's  church — " 
58 


THE    VOICE 


"Good  gracious!"  said  William  King. 

"They  were  not  enough.  So  I  used 
a  charm.  I  made  a  drink — " 

"Ah!"  said  the  doctor,  frowning. 
"What  was  in  the  drink,  Miss  Philly?" 

"Perhaps  it  was  not  the  right  herb," 
she  said;  "it  may  have  been  'mother- 
wort';  but  the  book  said  'monk's- 
hood/  and  I—" 

William  King  reached  for  his  whip  and 
cut  Jinny  across  the  flanks.  "Aconite!" 
he  said  under  his  breath,  while  Jinny 
leaped  forward  in  shocked  astonish 
ment. 

"Will  he  live?"  said  Philippa. 

Dr.  King,  flecking  Jinny  again,  and 
letting  his  reins  hang  over  the  dash 
board,  could  not  help  putting  a  com 
forting  arm  around  her.  "I  hope  so," 
he  said;  "I  hope  so!"  After  all,  there 
was  no  use  telling  the  child  that  prob 
ably  by  this  time  her  lover  was  either 
dead  or  getting  better.  "It's  his  own 
fault,"  William  King  thought,  angrily. 
59 


THE    VOICE 


"Why  in  thunder  didn't  he  fall  in  love 
like  a  man,  instead  of  making  the  child 
resort  to—  G'on,  Jinny!  G'on!" 

He  still  had  the  whip  in  his  hand 
when  they  drew  up  at  the  gate. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AA7HEN  Philippa  Roberts  had  fled 
^  *  out  into  the  night  for  help,  her 
father  and  old  Hannah  were  too  alarmed 
to  notice  her  absence.  They  went  hur 
rying  back  and  forth  with  this  remedy 
and  that.  Again  and  again  they  were 
ready  to  give  up;  once  Henry  Roberts 
said,  "He  is  gone!"  and  once  Hannah 
began  to  cry,  and  said,  "Poor  lad, 
poor  boy!"  Yet  each  made  one  more 
effort,  their  shadows  looming  gigan 
tic  against  the  walls  or  stretching 
across  the  ceiling,  bending  and  sinking 
as  they  knelt  beside  the  poor  young 
man,  who  by  that  time  was  beyond 
speech.  So  the  struggle  went  on.  But 
little  by  little  life  began  to  gain.  John 
Fenn's  eyes  opened.  Then  he  smiled. 
61 


THE    VOICE 


Then  he  said  something — they  could 
not  hear  what. 

"  Bless  the  Lord !"  said  Henry  Roberts. 

"He's  asking  for  Phffly,"  said  old 
Hannah.  By  the  time  the  doctor  and 
Philippa  reached  the  house  the  shadow 
of  death  had  lifted. 

"It  must  have  been  poison/'  Mr. 
Roberts  told  the  doctor.  "When  he 
gets  over  it  he  will  tell  us  what  it  was." 

"I  don't  believe  he  will,"  said  William 
King;  he  was  holding  Fenn's  wrist  be 
tween  his  firm  fingers,  and  then  he 
turned  up  a  fluttering  eyelid  and  looked 
at  the  still  dulled  eye. 

Philippa,  kneeling  on  the  other  side 
of  John  Fenn,  said  loudly:  "I  will  tell 
him — and  perhaps  God  will  forgive 


me." 


The  doctor,  glancing  up  at  her,  said: 
"No,  you  won't — anyhow  at  present. 
Take  that  child  up -stairs,  Hannah," 
he  commanded,  "and  put  her  to  bed. 
She  ran  all  the  way  to  Old  Chester  to 
62 


THE    VOICE 


get  me,"  he  explained  to  Henry  Rob 
erts. 

Before  he  left  the  house  that  night  he 
sat  for  a  few  minutes  at  Philippa's  bed 
side.  "My  dear  little  girl,"  he  said,  in 
his  kind,  sensible  voice,  "the  best  thing 
to  do  is  to  forget  it.  It  was  a  foolish 
thing  to  do — that  charm  business;  but 
happily  no  harm  is  done.  Now  say 
nothing  about  it,  and  never  do  it  again." 

Philippa  turned  her  shuddering  face 
away.  "Do  it  again?  Oh!" 

As  William  King  went  home  he  apolo 
gized  to  Jinny  for  that  cut  across  her 
flanks  by  hanging  the  reins  on  the  over 
head  hook,  and  letting  her  plod  along 
at  her  own  pleasure.  He  was  saying 
to  himself  that  he  hoped  he  had  done 
right  to  tell  the  child  to  hold  her  tongue. 
"It  was  just  tomfoolery,"  he  argued; 
"there  was  no  sin  about  it,  so  con 
fession  wouldn't  do  her  any  good;  on 
the  contrary,  it  would  hurt  a  girl's 
self-respect  to  have  a  man  know  she 
63 


THE    VOICE 


had  tried  to  catch  him.  But  what  a 
donkey  he  was  not  to  see.  ...  Oh  yes; 
I'm  sure  I'm  right,"  said  William  King. 
"I  wonder  how  Dr.  Lavendar  would 
look  at  it?" 

Philippa,  at  any  rate,  was  satisfied 
with  his  advice.  Perhaps  the  story  of 
what  she  had  done  might  have  broken 
from  her  pale  lips  had  her  father  asked 
any  questions;  but  Henry  Roberts  had 
retreated  into  troubled  silence.  There 
had  been  one  wonderful  moment  when 
he  thought  that  at  last  his  faith 
was  to  be  justified  and  by  the  unbe 
liever  himself!  and  he  had  cried  out, 
with  a  passion  deferred  for  more  than 
thirty  years : ' '  The  Voice/"  But  behold, 
the  voice,  babbling  and  meaningless,  was 
nothing  but  sickness.  No  one  could 
guess  what  the  shock  of  that  disap 
pointment  was.  He  was  not  able  even 
to  speak  of  it.  So  Philippa  was  asked 
no  awkward  questions,  and  her  self- 
knowledge  burned  deep  into  her  heart. 
64 


THE    VOICE 


In  the  next  few  days,  while  the  min 
ister  was  slowly  recovering  in  the  great 
four-poster  in  Henry  Roberts' s  guest 
room,  she  listened  to  Hannah's  specula 
tions  as  to  the  cause  of  his  attack,  and 
expressed  no  opinion.  She  was  dumb 
when  John  Fenn  tried  to  tell  her  how 
grateful  he  was  to  her  for  that  terrible 
run  through  the  darkness  for  his  sake. 

"You  should  not  be  grateful,"  she 
said,  at  last,  in  a  whisper. 

But  he  was  grateful;  and,  further 
more,  he  was  very  happy  in  those  days 
of  slow  recovery.  The  fact  was  that 
that  night,  when  he  had  been  so  near 
death,  he  had  heard  Philippa,  in  his  first 
dim  moments  of  returning  conscious 
ness,  stammering  out  those  distracted 
words:  "Perhaps  God  will  forgive  me." 
To  John  Fenn  those  words  meant  the 
crowning  of  all  his  efforts:  she  had  re 
pented! 

"Truly,"  he  said,  lying  very  white 
and  feeble  on  his  pillow  and  looking 
65 


THE    VOICE 


into  Philly's  face  when  she  brought 
him  his  gruel,  "truly, 

"He  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform!" 

The  " mysterious  way"  was  the  befall 
ing  of  that  terrible  illness  in  Henry 
Roberts's  house,  so  that  Philippa  should 
be  impressed  by  it.  "If  my  affliction 
has  been  blessed  to  any  one  else,  I  am 
glad  to  have  suffered  it,"  he  said. 

Philippa  silently  put  a  spoonful  of 
gruel  between  his  lips;  he  swallowed  it 
as  quickly  as  he  could. 

"I  heard  you  call  upon  God  for 
forgiveness;  the  Lord  is  merciful  and 
gracious!" 

Philly  said,  very  low,  "Yes;  oh  yes.11 

So  John  Fenn  thanked  God  and  took 
his  gruel,  and  thought  it  was  very  good. 
He  thought,  also,  that  Miss  Philippa  was 
very  good  to  be  so  good  to  him.  In 
those  next  few  days,  before  he  was  strong 
enough  to  be  moved  back  to  his  own 
66 


THE    BLOW    OF    HER    REPLY    ALMOST    KNOCKED    HIM    BACK 
INTO     HIS    MINISTERIAL    AFFECTATIONS 


THE    VOICE 


house,  he  thought  more  of  her  goodness 
and  less  of  her  salvation.  It  was  then 
that  he  had  his  great  moment,  his  re 
vealing  moment!  All  of  a  sudden,  at 
the  touch  of  Life,  his  honest  artificiality 
had  dropped  from  him,  and  he  knew 
that  he  had  never  before  known  any 
thing  worth  knowing!  He  knew  he 
was  in  love.  He  knew  it  when  he 
realized  that  he  was  not  in  the  least 
troubled  about  her  soul.  "That  is 
what  she  meant!"  he  thought;  "she 
wanted  me  to  care  for  her,  before  I 
cared  for  her  soul."  He  was  so  simple 
in  his  acceptance  of  the  revelation  that 
she  loved  him,  that  when  he  went  to 
ask  her  to  be  his  wife  the  blow  of  her 
reply  almost  knocked  him  back  into  his 
ministerial  affectations : 

"No." 

When  John  Fenn  got  home  that  even 
ing  he  went  into  his  study  and  shut  the 
door.  Mary  came  and  pounded  on  it, 
but  he  only  said,  in  a  muffled  voice: 
67 


THE    VOICE 


"No,  Mary.  Not  now.  Go  away." 
He  was  praying  for  resignation  to  what 
he  told  himself  was  the  will  of  God. 
"The  Lord  is  unwilling  that  my  thoughts 
should  be  diverted  from  His  service  by 
my  own  personal  happiness. "  Then  he 
tried  to  put  his  thoughts  on  that  service 
by  deciding  upon  a  text  for  his  next 
sermon.  But  the  texts  which  suggested 
themselves  were  not  steadying  to  his 
bewildered  mind: 

11  Love  one  another.'1  ("I  certainly 
thought  she  loved  me/') 

"Marvel  not,  my  brethren,  if  the  world 
hate  you"  ("I  am,  perhaps,  personally 
unattractive  to  her;  and  yet  I  wonder 
why?") 

He  was  not  a  conceited  man;  but, 
like  all  his  sex,  he  really  did  "marvel" 
a  little  at  the  lack  of  feminine  apprecia 
tion. 

He  marveled  so  much  that  a  week 
later  he  took  Mary  and  walked  out 
to  Mr.  Roberts's  house.  This  time 
68 


THE    VOICE 


Mary,  to  her  disgust,  was  left  with 
Miss  Philly's  father,  while  her  brother 
and  Miss  Philly  walked  in  the  frosted 
garden.  Later,  when  that  walk  was 
over,  and  the  little  sister  trudged  along 
at  John  Fenn's  side  in  the  direction  of 
Perryville,  she  was  very  fretful  because 
he  would  not  talk  to  her.  He  was  oc 
cupied,  poor  boy,  in  trying  again  not  to 
" marvel,"  and  to  be  submissive  to  the 
divine  will. 

After  that,  for  several  months,  he  re 
fused  Mary's  plea  to  be  taken  to  visit 
Miss  Philly.  He  had,  he  told  himself, 
" submitted";  but  submission  left  him 
very  melancholy  and  solemn,  and  also 
a  little  resentful;  indeed,  he  was  so  low 
in  his  mind,  that  once  he  threw  out  a 
bitter  hint  to  Dr.  Lavendar, — who,  ac 
cording  to  his  wont,  put  two  and  two 
together. 

"Men  in  our  profession,  sir,"  said 
John  Fenn,  "must  not  expect  personal 
happiness." 

69 


THE    VOICE 


"Well,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  medi 
tatively,  "  perhaps  if  we  don't  expect 
it,  the  surprise  of  getting  it  makes  it 
all  the  better.  I  expected  it;  but  I've 
exceeded  my  expectations!" 

"But  you  are  not  married, "  the 
young  man  said,  impulsively. 

Dr.  Lavendar's  face  changed;  "I  hope 
you  will  marry,  Fenn,"  he  said,  quietly. 
At  which  John  Fenn  said,  "I  am  mar 
ried  to  my  profession;  that  is  enough 
for  any  minister." 

"You'll  find  your  profession  a  mighty 
poor  housekeeper,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  Mr. 
Fenn  and  his  big  roan  broke  through 
the  snow-drifts  and  made  their  way  to 
Henry  Roberts's  house.  "I  must  speak 
to  you  alone,  sir,"  he  said  to  the  Irving- 
ite,  who,  seeing  him  approaching,  had 
hastened  to  open  the  door  for  him  and 
draw  him  in  out  of  the  cold  sunshine. 

What  the  caller  had  to  say  was  brief 
and  to  the  point:  Why  was  his  daughter 
70 


THE    VOICE 


so  unkind?  John  Fenn  did  not  feel  now 
that  the  world — which  meant  Philippa 
— hated  him.  He  felt — he  could  not 
help  feeling — that  she  did  not  even  dis 
like  him;  "on  the  contrary.  ..."  So 
what  reason  had  she  for  refusing  him? 
But  old  Mr.  Roberts  shook  his  head. 
"A  young  female  does  not  have  'rea 
sons,'"  he  said.  But  he  was  sorry  for 
the  youth,  and  he  roused  himself  from 
his  abstraction  long  enough  to  question 
his  girl: 

"He  is  a  worthy  young  man,  my 
Philippa.  Why  do  you  dislike  him?" 

"I  do  not  dislike  him." 

"Then  why—?"  her  father  pro 
tested. 

But  Philly  was  silent. 

Even  Hannah  came  to  the  rescue: 

"You'll  get  a  crooked  stick  at  the 
end,  if  you  don't  look  out!" 

Philly  laughed;  then  her  face  fell. 
"I  sha'n't  have  any  stick,  ever!" 

And  Hannah,  in  her  concern,  con- 
71 


THE    VOICE 


fided  her  forebodings  about  the  stick 
to  Dr.  King. 

"I  wonder,"  William  said  to  himself, 
uneasily,  "if  I  was  wise  to  tell  that  child 
to  hold  her  tongue  ?  Perhaps  they  might 
have  straightened  it  out  between  'em 
before  this,  if  she  had  told  him  and 
been  done  with  it.  I've  a  great  mind 
to  ask  Dr.  Lavendar." 

He  did  ask  him;  at  first  with  proper 
precautions  not  to  betray  a  patient's 
confidence,  but,  at  a  word  from  Dr. 
Lavendar,  tumbling  into  truthfulness. 

"You  are  talking  about  young  Philip- 
pa  Roberts?"  Dr.  Lavendar  announced, 
calmly,  when  William  was  half-way 
through  his  story  of  concealed  identi 
ties. 

"How  did  you  guess  it?"  the  doctor 
said,  astonished;  "oh,  well,  yes,  I  am. 
I  guess  there's  no  harm  telling  you— r" 

"Not  the  slightest,"  said  Dr.  Laven 
dar,  "especially  as  I  knew  it  already 
from  the  young  man — I  mean,  I  knew 
72 


THE    VOICE 


she  wouldn't  have  him.  But  I  didn't 
know  why  until  your  story  dovetailed 
with  his.  William,  the  thing  has  fes 
tered  in  her!  The  lancet  ought  to  have 
been  used  the  next  day.  I  believe  she'd 
have  been  married  by  this  time  if  she'd 
spoken  out,  then  and  there." 

William  King  was  much  chagrined. 
"I  thought,  being  a  girl,  you  know,  her 
pride,  her  self-respect— 

"Oh  yes;  the  lancet  hurts/'  Dr. 
Lavendar  admitted;  "but  it's  better 
than — well,  I  don't  know  the  terms  of 
your  trade,  Willy — but  I  guess  you 
know  what  I  mean?" 

"I  guess  I  do,"  said  William  King, 
thoughtfully.  "Do  you  suppose  it's 
too  late  now?" 

"It  will  be  more  of  an  operation," 
Dr.  Lavendar  conceded. 

"Could  /  tell  him?"  William  said, 
after  a  while. 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  Dr.  Lavendar 
said. 

a  73 


THE    VOICE 


"I  suppose  I'd  have  to  ask  her  per 
mission?" 

"Nonsense!"  said  Dr.  Lavendar. 

That  talk  between  the  physician  of 
the  soul  and  the  physician  of  the  body 
happened  on  the  very  night  when  John 
Fenn,  in  his  study  in  Perryville,  with 
Mary  dozing  on  his  knee,  threw  over, 
once  and  for  all,  what  he  had  called 
"submission"  and  made  up  his  mind  to 
get  his  girl!  The  very  next  morning  he 
girded  himself  and  walked  forth  upon 
the  Pike  toward  Henry  Roberts' s  house. 
He  did  not  take  Mary  with  him, — but 
not  because  he  meant  to  urge  salvation 
on  Miss  Philly!  As  it  happened,  Dr. 
King,  too,  set  out  upon  the  Perryville 
road  that  morning,  remarking  to  Jinny 
that  if  he  had  had  his  wits  about  him 
that  night  in  November,  she  would 
have  been  saved  the  trip  on  this  May 
morning.  The  trip  was  easy  enough; 
William  had  found  a  medical  pamphlet 
among  his  mail,  and  he  was  reading  it, 
74 


THE    VOICE 


with  the  reins  hanging  from  the  crook 
of  his  elbow.  It  was  owing  to  this 
method  of  driving  that  John  Fenn 
reached  the  Roberts  house  before  Jinny 
passed  it,  so  she  went  all  the  way  to 
Perryville,  and  then  had  to  turn  round 
to  follow  on  his  track. 

"Brother  went  to  see  Miss  Philly, 
and  he  wouldn't  take  me,"  Mary  com 
plained  to  William  King,  when  he  drew 
up  at  the  minister's  door;  and  the 
doctor  was  sympathetic  to  the  ex 
tent  of  five  cents  for  candy  com 
fort. 

But  when  Jinny  reached  the  Roberts 
gate  Dr.  King  saw  John  Fenn  down  in 
the  garden  with  Philippa.  "Ho — ho!" 
said  William.  "I  guess  I'll  wait  and 
see  if  he  works  out  his  own  salvation." 
He  hitched  Jinny,  and  went  in  to  find 
Philippa's  father,  and  to  him  he  freed 
his  mind.  The  two  men  sat  on  the 
porch  looking  down  over  the  tops 
of  the  lilac -bushes  into  the  garden, 
75 


THE    VOICE 


where  they  could  just  see  the  heads  of 
the  two  young,  unhappy  people. 

"It's  nonsense,  you  know/*  said 
William  King,  "that  Philly  doesn't  take 
that  boy.  He's  head  over  heels  in  love 
with  her." 

"She  is  not  attached  to  him  in  any 
such  manner,"  Henry  Roberts  said; 
"I  wonder  a  little  at  it,  myself.  He  is  a 
good  youth." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  wonder- 
ingly;  it  occurred  to  him  that  if  he  had 
a  daughter  he  would  understand  her 
better  than  Philly 's  father  understood 
her.  "I  think  the  child  cares  for  him," 
he  said;  then,  hesitatingly,  he  referred 
to  John  Fenn's  sickness.  "I  suppose 
you  know  about  it?"  he  said. 

Philly's  father  bent  his  head;  he 
knew,  he  thought,  only  too  well;  no 
divine  revelation  in  a  disordered  diges 
tion! 

"Don't  you  think,"  William  King 
said,  smiling,  "you  might  try  to  make 
76 


THE    VOICE 


her  feel  that  she  is  wrong  not  to  accept 
him,  now  that  the  charm  has  worked, 
so  to  speak?" 

"The  charm?"  the  old  man  repeated, 
vaguely. 

"I  thought  you  understood,"  the 
doctor  said,  frowning;  then,  after  a 
minute's  hesitation,  he  told  him  the 
facts. 

Henry  Roberts  stared  at  him,  shocked 
and  silent;  his  girl,  his  Philippa,  to 
have  done  such  a  thing!  "So  great  a 
sin — my  little  Philly!"  he  said,  faintly. 
He  was  pale  with  distress. 

"My  dear  sir,"  Dr.  King  protested, 
impatiently,  "don't  talk  about  sin  in 
connection  with  that  child.  I  wish  I'd 
held  my  tongue!" 

Henry  Roberts  was  silent.  Philip- 
pa's  share  in  John  Fenn's  mysterious 
illness  removed  it  still  further  from  that 
revelation,  waited  for  during  all  these 
years  with  such  passionate  patience. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  William  King's 
77 


THE    VOICE 


reassurances;  and  his  silence  was  so 
silencing  that  by  and  by  the  doctor 
stopped  talking  and  looked  down  into 
the  garden  again.  He  observed  that 
those  two  heads  had  not  drawn  any 
nearer  together.  It  was  not  John  Fenn's 
fault.  .  .  . 

"There  can  be  no  good  reason,"  he 
was  saying  to  Philippa.  "If  it  is  a  bad 
reason,  I  will  overcome  it!  Tell  me 
why?" 

She  put  her  hand  up  to  her  lips  and 
trembled. 

"Come,"  he  said;  "it  is  my  due, 
Philippa.  I  will  know!" 

Philippa  shook  her  head.  He  took 
her  other  hand  and  stroked  it,  as  one 
might  stroke  a  child's  hand  to  comfort 
and  encourage  it. 

"You  must  tell  me,  beloved,"  he  said. 

Philippa  looked   at  him  with  scared 

eyes;  then,  suddenly  pulling  her  hands 

from  his  and  turning  away,  she  covered 

her  face  and  burst  into  uncontrollable 

78 


THE    VOICE 


sobbing.  He,  confounded  and  fright 
ened,  followed  her  and  tried  to  soothe 
her. 

"Never  mind,  Philly,  never  mind! 
if  you  don't  want  to  tell  me — " 

"I  do  want  to  tell  you.  I  will  tell 
you!  You  will  despise  me.  But  I  will 
tell  you.  /  did  a  wicked  deed.  It  was 
this  very  plant — here,  where  we  stand, 
monk's-hood!  It  was  poison.  I  didn't 
know — oh,  I  didn't  know.  The  book 
said  monk's-hood — it  was  a  mistake. 
But  I  did  a  wicked  deed.  I  tried  to 
kill  you—" 

She  swayed  as  she  spoke,  and  then 
seemed  to  sink  down  and  down,  until 
she  lay,  a  forlorn  little  heap,  at.  his 
feet.  For  one  dreadful  moment  he 
thought  she  had  lost  her  senses.  He 
tried  to  lift  her,  saying,  with  agitation: 

"Philly!    We  will  not  speak  of  it—" 

"I  murdered  you,"  she  whispered. 
"I  put  the  charm  into  your  tea,  to  make 
you  .  .  .  love  me.  You  didn't  die. 
79 


THE    VOICE 


But  it  was  murder.     I  meant — I  meant 
no  harm — " 

He  understood.  He  lifted  her  up 
and  held  her  in  his  arms.  Up  on  the 
porch  William  King  saw  that  the  two 
heads  were  close  together! 

' '  Why !' '  the  young  man  said.     ' '  Why 
—but  Philly!     You  loved  me!" 

"What  difference  does  that  make?" 
she  said,  heavily. 

"It  makes  much  difference  to  me," 
he  answered;  he  put  his  hand  on  her 
soft  hair  and  tried  to  press  her  head  down 
again  onhis  shoulder.  But  shedrewaway. 

"No;  no." 

"But—"  he  began.  She  interrupted 
him. 

"Listen,"  she  said;  and  then,  some 
times  in  a  whisper,  sometimes  breaking 
into  a  sob,  she  told  him  the  story  of  that 
November  night.  He  could  hardly  hear 
it  through. 

"Love,  you  loved  me!  You  will 
marry  me." 

80 


THE    VOICE 


"No;  I  am  a  wicked  girl — a — a — an 
immodest  girl — " 

"  My  beloved,  you  meant  no  wrong — " 
He  paused,  seeing  that  she  was  not 
listening. 

Her  father  and  the  doctor  were  com 
ing  down  the  garden  path;  William 
King,  beaming  with  satisfaction  at  the 
proximity  of  those  two  heads,  had  sum 
moned  Henry  Roberts  to  "come  along 
and  give  'em  your  blessing!" 

But  as  he  reached  them,  standing  now 
apart,  the  doctor's  smile  faded — evi 
dently  something  had  happened.  John 
Fenn,  tense  with  distress,  called  to  him 
with  frowning  command :  '  *  Doctor !  Tell 
her,  for  heaven's  sake,  tell  her  that  it 
was  nothing — that  charm!  Tell  her  she 
did  no  wrong." 

"  No  one  can  do  that,"  Henry  Roberts 
said;  "it  was  a  sin." 

"Now,  look  here — "  Dr.  King  began. 

"It  was  a  sin  to  try  to  move  by  fool 
ish  arts  the  will  of  God." 

81 


THE    VOICE 


Philippa  turned  to  the  young  man, 
standing  quivering  beside  her.  "You 
see?"  she  said. 

"No!  No,  I  don?t  see— or  if  I  do, 
never  mind." 

Just  for  a  moment  her  face  cleared. 
(Yes,  truly,  he  was  not  thinking  of  her 
soul  now!)  But  the  gleam  faded.  "  Oh, 
father,  I  am  a  great  sinner, "  she 
whispered. 

"No,  you're  not!"  William  King  said. 

"Yes,  my  Philippa,  you  are,"  Henry 
Roberts  agreed,  solemnly. 

The  lover  made  a  despairing  gesture: 
"Doctor  King!  tell  her  'no!'  'no!'" 

"Yes,"  her  father  went  on,  "it  was 
a  sin.  Therefore,  Philippa,  sin  no  more. 
Did  you  pray  that  this  young  man's 
love  might  be  given  to  you?" 

Philippa  said,  in  a  whisper,  "Yes." 

"And  it  was  given  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Philippa,  was  it  the  foolish  weed 
that  moved  him  to  love?"  She  was 
82 


THE    VOICE 


silent.  "My  child,  my  Philly,  it  was 
your  Saviour  who  moved  the  heart  of 
this  youth,  because  you  asked  Him. 
Will  you  do  such  despite  to  your  Lord 
as  to  reject  the  gift  he  has  given  in 
answer  to  your  prayer ?"  Philippa,  with 
parted  lips,  was  listening  intently :  ' '  The 
gift  He  had  given!" 

Dr.  King  dared  not  speak.  John 
Penn  looked  at  him,  and  then  at  Phi 
lippa,  and  trembled.  Except  for  the 
sound  of  a  bird  stirring  in  its  nest  over 
head  in  the  branches,  a  sunny  still 
ness  brooded  over  the  garden.  Then, 
suddenly,  the  stillness  was  shattered 
by  a  strange  sound — a  loud,  cadenced 
chant,  full  of  rhythmical  repetitions. 
The  three  who  heard  it  thrilled  from 
head  to  foot;  Henry  Roberts  did  not 
seem  to  hear  it:  it  came  from  his  own 
lips. 

"Oh,  Philippa!  Oh,  Philippa!  I  do 
require — I  do  require  that  you  accept 
your  Saviour's  gift.  Add  not  sin  to 
83 


THE    VOICE 


sin.  Oh,  add  not  sin  to  sin  by  making 
prayer  of  no  avail!  Behold,  He  has 
set  before  thee  an  open  door.  Oh,  let 
no  man  shut  it.  Oh,  let  no  man  shut 
it.  .  .  ." 

The  last  word  fell  into  a  low,  wailing 
note.  No  one  spoke.  The  bird  rustled 
in  the  leaves  above  them;  a  butterfly 
wavered  slowly  down  to  settle  on  a 
purple  flag  in  the  sunshine.  Philly's 
eyes  filled  with  blessed  tears.  She 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  her  father 
and  smiled.  But  it  was  John  Fenn  who 
caught  those  slender,  trembling  arms 
against  his  breast;  and,  looking  over  at 
the  old  man,  he  said,  softly,  "  The 
Voice  of  God." 


.  .  .  "and  I,"  said  William  King, 
telling  the  story  that  night  to  Dr. 
Lavendar — "I  just  wanted  to  say  'the 
voice  of  common  sense!1 ' 

"  My  dear  William,"  said  the  old  man, 
84 


THE    VOICE 


gently,  "the  most  beautiful  thing  in 
the  world  is  the  knowledge  that  comes 
to  you,  when  you  get  to  be  as  old 
as  I  am,  that  they  are  the  same 
thing." 


THE   END 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN    INITIAL    FINE     OF     25     CENTS 

WILL.  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL.  .NCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 

™ 


7    193; 


SEP  17  1933 
JUL   14  1938 


31    1939 
SE?  "14  1940 


AUG  6    1945 


LD  21-50m-8(-32 


10269 1 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


